On books written by Haruki Murakami

I find it really hard to describe any book written by Haruki Murakami to others. His books have some sort of ineffable quality that can’t be explained.

I was reading The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle this last week, and I could not help but notice the similarities between this book and his other books I’ve read. It almost feels like he’s trying to tell one particular story he has in mind, and with each book he writes he’s trying to get closer to it. Almost.

All his books have a dream-like quality: the characters themselves don’t know what’s real most of the time and they’re surprisingly unruffled by the fact. Inevitable destiny mixes with destined inevitability, so to speak of.

I felt as if I had become part of a badly written novel and someone was trying to take me to task for being utterly unreal. And perhaps it was true.

The books end at just note: you know the story’s not over yet, but you get close enough to peek at some possible outcomes—some of them seeming more likely than the rest. You feel compelled to try and figure out what will, nay what should happen next.